Histories — here and now

Published: Sunday, May 19, 2013 at 4:30 a.m.

Last Modified: Friday, May 17, 2013 at 1:07 p.m.

Robert Frost wrote "Directive."

David Yetze (Wall Street Journal), in what he calls "an anatomy of a classic," calls the poem deceptively simple.

We are led on a walk through the woods — past the site of a former town. At a brook, beside a "house that is no longer a house," the guide produces a broken goblet, and he encourages us "to drink and be whole again beyond confusion."

The poem, according to Yetze, begins with one of Frost's most striking lines: "Back out all this now too much for us."

What appears to be at the heart of the poem is the weariness we all have with the "considerations of the world."

Frost touches on his struggles with a confused present in another poem, "Carpe Diem." "The present," the poet states, "is too much for the senses/ Too crowding, too confusing/ Too present to imagine."

Saturday has always been a day to re-order my life. It is probably a holdover from my 32 years of teaching. For me, it provides much needed time to put back into place what has been "confused" during the week's activities.

A significant task is taking household waste to the transfer station on Stoney Mountain Road. I am always amazed at how much can be accumulated in a week's time.

A new entrance to the facility has eliminated, for the most part, the long wait lines that used to be a Saturday concern. There is a new approach to the sheds where, for a small fee, one can deposit bags of household waste and recyclables. Everything is much improved from the old ways of doing things.

I turn off Stoney Mountain Road and travel the short distance. As I approach the station house, I observe unfamiliar terrain. I notice for the first time what appears to be a tombstone on a grassy knoll to my right. I am surprised. I didn't know there was a cemetery here. I then approach the station house to pay the fee and gain admittance. I wait for the red light to change to green.

After unloading the bags of rubbish, I drive my vehicle out the exit. Suddenly I stop and turn back. I cross over into the entrance lane and seek a parking space. I get out and walk a few feet to a grassy bank, then labor up the incline to a fence that stands between me and the marker. I read the inscription.

Beyond the marker are blocks of unmarked pieces of granite, no identification. The county commissioners, in 1948, honored those who died at the former Henderson County Home — "since the creation of the county in 1838." The placement of the commemorative stone must have been part of the centennial celebration of Henderson County.

I conclude this grave site is the final resting place for the indigent, the pauper — the life dropped off and too often forgotten.

The arrangement of the unmarked stones suggests significance. I recall the many cemeteries and graveyards throughout the county and the unidentified lives marked by field stones. I begin to imagine lives lived. Who were these people? What life stories beg to be told?

"The histories we make are ourselves, here and now." I keep turning the thought over and over in my mind.

That this particular cemetery is close-by the destination for disposable trash and other rubbish seems prophetic. I do not know the history of the old County Home. I determine to find out.

What has replaced the County Home? Are there lives today that are being lost to us? How am I connected to those lives?

The image of "glass darkly" found in the Bible comes to mind. "To be known even as I am known" is puzzling. I do not understand. My thoughts lie beneath words.

I recall Frost's definition of a poem. "A poem," he writes, "begins in delight and ends in wisdom" — a clarification of life, not necessarily a great clarification of life, but in "a momentary stay against the confusion of the world."

Each day I travel Stoney Mountain Road en route to my home. I pass where the "Home" once served the county.

<p>Robert Frost wrote "Directive." </p><p>David Yetze (Wall Street Journal), in what he calls "an anatomy of a classic," calls the poem deceptively simple. </p><p>We are led on a walk through the woods — past the site of a former town. At a brook, beside a "house that is no longer a house," the guide produces a broken goblet, and he encourages us "to drink and be whole again beyond confusion." </p><p>The poem, according to Yetze, begins with one of Frost's most striking lines: "Back out all this now too much for us." </p><p>What appears to be at the heart of the poem is the weariness we all have with the "considerations of the world." </p><p>Frost touches on his struggles with a confused present in another poem, "Carpe Diem." "The present," the poet states, "is too much for the senses/ Too crowding, too confusing/ Too present to imagine." </p><p>Saturday has always been a day to re-order my life. It is probably a holdover from my 32 years of teaching. For me, it provides much needed time to put back into place what has been "confused" during the week's activities.</p><p>A significant task is taking household waste to the transfer station on Stoney Mountain Road. I am always amazed at how much can be accumulated in a week's time. </p><p>A new entrance to the facility has eliminated, for the most part, the long wait lines that used to be a Saturday concern. There is a new approach to the sheds where, for a small fee, one can deposit bags of household waste and recyclables. Everything is much improved from the old ways of doing things. </p><p>I turn off Stoney Mountain Road and travel the short distance. As I approach the station house, I observe unfamiliar terrain. I notice for the first time what appears to be a tombstone on a grassy knoll to my right. I am surprised. I didn't know there was a cemetery here. I then approach the station house to pay the fee and gain admittance. I wait for the red light to change to green. </p><p>After unloading the bags of rubbish, I drive my vehicle out the exit. Suddenly I stop and turn back. I cross over into the entrance lane and seek a parking space. I get out and walk a few feet to a grassy bank, then labor up the incline to a fence that stands between me and the marker. I read the inscription. </p><p>Beyond the marker are blocks of unmarked pieces of granite, no identification. The county commissioners, in 1948, honored those who died at the former Henderson County Home — "since the creation of the county in 1838." The placement of the commemorative stone must have been part of the centennial celebration of Henderson County.</p><p>I conclude this grave site is the final resting place for the indigent, the pauper — the life dropped off and too often forgotten. </p><p>The arrangement of the unmarked stones suggests significance. I recall the many cemeteries and graveyards throughout the county and the unidentified lives marked by field stones. I begin to imagine lives lived. Who were these people? What life stories beg to be told? </p><p>"The histories we make are ourselves, here and now." I keep turning the thought over and over in my mind. </p><p>That this particular cemetery is close-by the destination for disposable trash and other rubbish seems prophetic. I do not know the history of the old County Home. I determine to find out. </p><p>What has replaced the County Home? Are there lives today that are being lost to us? How am I connected to those lives? </p><p>The image of "glass darkly" found in the Bible comes to mind. "To be known even as I am known" is puzzling. I do not understand. My thoughts lie beneath words.</p><p>I recall Frost's definition of a poem. "A poem," he writes, "begins in delight and ends in wisdom" — a clarification of life, not necessarily a great clarification of life, but in "a momentary stay against the confusion of the world."</p><p>Each day I travel Stoney Mountain Road en route to my home. I pass where the "Home" once served the county.</p>